


clouds in your coffee

by ohhotlamb



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Airplanes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Flight Attendants, Kissing, Male-Female Friendship, and utter dweeb ymir, feat. go-get-em-tiger christa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 20:01:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9200186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohhotlamb/pseuds/ohhotlamb
Summary: Her voice is lowered, husky, and her eyes continue to rove over Christa’s reddening face. “The captains would like me to tell you to buckle up, ‘cause we’re about to experience someturbulence.”The way she says it makes Christa know that it was one-hundred percent intentional, and that she is one-hundred percent screwed.“Goodness,” says Christa, breathless.“Holy shit,” echoes Eren. “Christa, what did youdo? She looks like she’s gonna eat you alive.”“God, I hope so.”





	

At first, Christa thought it was pretty nice that she and Eren got bumped up to first class.

Yes, there was the downside that their luggage had been carted off to Norway in the first place. But it had been delivered to their hotel in Salzburg two days later, which was better than a lot of people could say for misplaced luggage. And _yes_ Eren’s shirt had smelled a bit ripe by that time and Christa wouldn’t have minded having access to her facewash and, you know, _clean underwear._ But what’s done was done—it had been a marvelous trip regardless, and now to show for their few days of suffering by the way of poor hygiene they have thousands of pictures, souvenirs, and now _first class airplane seats._

There was just so much more _legroom._ Not that she, you know, really needed all that much—but that was beside the point! She could point her toes and stretch without worrying about kicking the back of someone’s seat! And speaking of seats—they were made with a leathery sort of upholstery, and cushy, and way better than anything that could be sat on back in economy. She was in the aisle seat a few rows back from the very front, which meant that she didn’t have to climb over any laps if she needed to use the bathroom (again, not that she really ever had to climb over anybody—being small had its perks, sometimes). Overall, it just made her feel _fancy._ Like she was someone _important._

But it had only been pleasant for a maximum of fifteen minutes, because a downer comes in the form of none other than Eren—Eren, sweet, simple-minded, short-tempered Eren, who is unfortunately a bit too preoccupied to enjoy the current circumstances.

“I’m tellin’ you, he’s giving me a _look._ A dirty look. _”_

Christa sifts through the seat pouch ahead of her, tongue poking out as her nimble fingers pass over a barf bag, a SkyMall magazine, a safety and evacuation manual…

“Eren, he’s not. It’s just his face.”

“He _is._ Christa, I—look! Just now! He did it again!”

“He’s not—“

“ _Look!”_

Christa sighs, glancing up at the flight attendant in question, the victim of Eren’s current warmongering. His proportions are a bit…off, but he’s not entirely unpleasant to look at, just a little…long? His eyes are kind of narrow, and his mouth looks a bit pinched, and he might be looking (glaring) in their general direction…

He also looks unmistakably green.

Her eyebrows pinch together. “Does he look okay to you?”

Eren frowns. “What do you mean? He looks like an asshole, right?”

“No, I mean, doesn’t he look unwell? Like he doesn’t feel good.”

Eren squints, lip curling. “He’s probably finally realized how shitty his hair is.”

And while Christa had been fairly certain the flight attendant hadn’t been singling Eren out _before,_ he certainly is _now._ His glare settles on them, eyes narrowing even more, and Christa elbows Eren in the side to shut him up.

“Ooof.”

“Quiet! And be nice, he hasn’t done anything to you!”

“He _stink eyed me_ , Christa!”

She fixes him with one of her sterner looks. “When he comes by to take our drink orders I fully expect you to be on your best behavior.”

Eren ducks his head. “Oh, my god. Did my mom give you, like, a pamphlet? Is she feeding you instructions from an undisclosed location?”

Christa cracks a smile, smacking him lightly on the arm. “Watch the sass, punk. I brought you into this world, and I can take you out of it.”

His eyes widen. “Shit. She _did_ give you a pamphlet.” Then, “What’s with the surgical mask? You look sketchy.”

At his reminder, she better secures the hooks behind both ears, adjusting the mask to comfortably settle over her nose and mouth. It’s hot and stuffy, and all she can smell is her tangerine chapstick, but it’s better than the alternative—the cumulative breath of two hundred strangers, all sick and germy, and—

“Airplane air is too dry. It hurts my nose.”

Eren turns up his own nose with a sniff. “Sorry that regular air isn’t good enough for you, Your Highness.” 

This has her dissolve into giggles, and Eren grins. He settles back into his seat and closes his eyes, arms crossing over his chest.  For the time being, he seems to decide to leave the sickly flight attendant to suffer in peace. “Feel free to use me as a pillow at any time. I’ve been told my shoulders are better than Tempur-Pedic.”

She briefly settles her cheek on said shoulder, her voice slightly muffled behind the mask. “You’re right. It’s like memory foam.”

“ _Better_ than memory foam,” he corrects her.

“Right, sorry.”

She closes her eyes then, idly listening to the sounds of the boarding passengers, to the sound of the warming engine, and then very briefly the low croon of a lovely, accented voice…

 

**

 

“Oh, I fell asleep,” she murmurs.

Her eyes open to find that Eren is an even better friend than previously thought, because she’d drooled during her nap and he hadn’t shifted an inch. She pulls away, finding a wet spot on his sweatshirt. She cringes. “Oops. Sorry.”

There are earbuds in his ears, but he pulls one out when she speaks. He smiles kindly. “It’s fine. I’ve seen worse. You should see Mikasa sleeping, seriously. That shit’ll haunt you.”

She laughs again before looking in front of her, noticing that her tray had been folded down. A small cup has been placed in the circular depression off to one side. She takes it, curious, and pulls her mask down to dangle from one ear.

“I ordered you a Coke.”

“Thank you.” She looks around, bringing the plastic cup to her lips to wet her dry mouth. Her face feels unnaturally cool where the fresh air touches the skin warmed by her damp breath. “How long has it been?”

“Uh, an hour? An hour and a half? Not too long.”

She nods, blinking the drowsiness out of her eyes—she’s a little disappointed she woke up when she did. That’s only an hour and a half maximum taken out of a thirteen hour flight. She has a few new books loaded onto her Kindle and listening to music is always an option, but she doesn’t want to get bored of any of those options too early. She’d watch the in-flight movie, but it’s something that involves a lot of white middle-aged men and desaturated colors. She’ll pass.

Eren nudges her, and she turns to him. He ducks in close, whispering. “I think you were right.”

“I think I was too, but about what, exactly?”

He rolls his eyes. “That the flight attendant dude doesn’t feel so hot. His hands were shaking when he was giving the safety demo spiel with the other lady. And his face was so green he looked like Shrek.”

Her stomach twinges with sympathy.  “Poor guy.”

Eren opens his mouth—probably to say something else deserving of an elbow into his ribcage, but at that moment he’s interrupted by a sick-sounding burp, and then a not-hushed-enough voice coming from somewhere past the restroom, behind a black curtain.

“Jean, you get your flowery ass back out there. I’m not gonna be poppin’ two hundred cans on my own!”

“But Ymmiiirrrr…!” Another burp, and a muffled groan. “I’m gonna throw up in the aisle, I swear, I’ll be a laughing stock—“

The voice—a woman’s, with a slight Scandinavian accent—growls, frustrated. “You think I give a damn? Suck it up!” There’s the sound of scrabbling, a muted thud, and a repressed keening sound. “...Oi, Kirstein, if you get a _speck_ of vomit on my shoes I swear to god—“

Jean (apparently) now has the tangible sound of tears in his voice. “I’m gonna die, I’m dying, please, Ymir, I’m begging you—“

“Keep it down, you pathetic weenie!” The woman snarls. “Fine. _Fine._ But you owe me. I’m serious. The moment we touch down I _own_ you. You will be kissing my fuckin’ feet. Capiche?”

“Thank you, thank you—“

“Hey, I didn’t mean kiss my feet _now,_ get off the floor—Jesus, I didn’t know nausea made you stupid, too. Just sit down and sleep until we land, got it? And stop moaning so much, you’re disturbing the passengers.”

Jean laughs, the sound miserable. “Like you’ve ever cared about that.”

“One more word, Kirstein.”

Meekly: “….sorry.”

Then the black curtain is ripped back with a bit too much excessive force, and that’s all it takes for the breath to be completely stolen from Christa’s lungs.

The woman’s eyes are a tawny yellow, catlike and perfectly complimenting to her lovely, angular face. Her skin is dark, her hair is a deep chestnut, and she has several handfuls of freckles thrown across her cheeks, dripping down onto her neck and most likely below.

But all of that pales in comparison to the haze of self-confidence that surrounds her like a cloud. It’s everywhere—the way she’s holding herself, the proud tilt of her chin, the way her eyes scan the passengers like she’s daring them to call her out on the spectacle everyone just undoubtedly heard. It’s admirable, it’s intoxicating, it’s enough to get Christa’s toes curling in her shoes.

She’s probably the most beautiful woman Christa’s ever seen in her young life.

The woman (her winged nametag is too far away for Christa to read, though she thinks she heard that she was called Y…-something) steps up to the intercom set into the wall, plucking the speaker off with long, thin fingers. She holds it to her mouth (painted a deep, cherry red), her shoulder leaning casually into the wall. “Hello passengers, thanks to the weak stomach of one Mr. Kirstein, I will now be your sole attendant for the remainder of the flight.” As if to make her point, the sound of a low groan can be heard somewhere back by the cockpit. “This means that I will be hauling aaa—I mean, I will be working my hardest to meet each of your individual needs, but please be patient as I regretfully only possess two hands.”

As she says this, she frowns, grimacing at her limbs contritely. Christa hears a number of passengers laugh, and she firmly tells herself that love at first sight absolutely is not a real thing.

“Please press the call button if you need anything, and I will be there as soon as possible. If you press it for no reason, I will ignore you. Hm, let’s see, what else…” she purses her lips. “Oh, yeah.  You guys all know the deal with seatbelts. Namely, when you gotta buckle ‘em. Now, I’ve just been informed by the pilots thaahhhhnnnnn—“ Her last word has somehow become an intelligible mess, like she’s managed to choke on her spit and conveniently lost her tongue at the same time, because that is the exact moment that those golden eyes meet Christa’s.

Christa’s eyes—baby blue, wide as saucers, quite possibly resembling one who has seen the face of God. Christa, who may or may not be salivating. Christa, who swallows, choking back a whimper. Christa, who can’t remember another time she’d seriously considered pulling someone with her into an airplane bathroom and just. _Going for it._

The woman blinks, mouth flapping, her face frozen with a shock that makes it seem like she can read each and every one of Christa’s impure thoughts. Christa exhales, slowly, taking the necessary moment to school her expression into something less predatory. It works—the stunned woman melts, quickly picking up her broken train of thought. But her voice is lowered, husky, and her eyes continue to rove over Christa’s reddening face. “The captains would like me to tell you to buckle up, ‘cause we’re about to experience some _turbulence_.”

The way she says it makes Christa know that it was one-hundred percent intentional, and that she is one-hundred percent screwed.

“Goodness,” says Christa, breathless.

“Holy shit,” echoes Eren. She had nearly forgotten he was there—she tears her eyes away in time to see him blink, bringing his cup of apple juice up to his lips to take a sip. “Christa, what did you _do?_ She looks like she’s gonna eat you alive.”

“God, I hope so.”

Eren snorts and apple juice comes out his nose.

“Ah, shit, that burns—"

 

**

 

The woman’s name is Ymir, she’s taller than Christa by what appears to be nearly a foot, and her thighs look like they’d be strong enough to pop a watermelon. This, regretfully, is the cumulative information Christa’s scraped together in the four hours since their meeting (if you could even really call it a _meeting,_ but it’s the least melodramatic word Christa could think of to describe the moment she locked eyes with the personification of a wet dream.)

Christa doesn’t know what she was expecting, but she was expecting _something._ The way Ymir looked at her earlier—that wasn’t just her imagination, right? There had definitely been…chemistry. A spark. And while she didn’t necessarily think Ymir would sweep her away for passionate love-making in the cockpit, she thought that something would have happened by now. But all that’s happened is slightly awkward eye-contact when Ymir makes her way up and down the aisle. Her cheeks redden every time, and it drives Christa _crazy._ What happened to that oozing confidence? She seemed like the type to put on the moves, and hard. Was she secretly shy? Did she change her mind? Christa gnaws at her lower lip, contemplating, and psyching herself up, then putting herself back down, and then _more_ contemplating.

The hours pass this way. She gives into temptation and starts the novel on her Kindle, though she can barely focus when her ears are hyper-tuned the methodical _pop_ of soda can tabs. She eats the in-flight meal that Ymir passes out (while staring resolutely at Christa’s shoulder) and a package of snack mix that she finds at the bottom of her purse.  Meanwhile, Eren’s totally conked out. He’s one of those people who can sleep anywhere at anytime, and his breathing has transitioned to soft, barely-there snores, his head lolling, arms crossed loosely over his chest. Christa usually doesn’t have a problem sleeping on planes either, but the thing is, she _doesn’t want to._ She doesn’t want to pass a single minute of this trip unconscious. What if she misses some pivotal moment? What if Ymir finally decides to strike a conversation with her, only to discover Christa drooling all over Eren’s shirt again? It’s too risky, so she pushes through her exhaustion, the light from the tiny oval window having gone from dark to light to dark again.

She doesn’t know how much time passes—all she knows is that she’s been staring at her Kindle (but not actually reading) for so long that her eyes are going crossed, and that she’s made eye-contact with Ymir a grand total of seven times. After long hours of not making a peep, Eren’s internal clock must alert him of a Salzburg sunrise, because he lets out a soft grunt as he wakes, stretching his back and yawning. His vertebrae pop as he looks around, looking disoriented and ruffled.

“Wha' time ‘sit?” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

She doesn’t actually know, but with a quick glance at the clock on her Kindle and a rough calculation, her stomach sinks with realization. “We land in an hour.”

“Ugh, finally, my legs’r _killin’ me—“_

_I’m running out of time._

“I’m going to do it,” Christa blurts, quickly leaning forward to drop her Kindle in the seat pocket. She brushes crumbs off of her lap, reaching to run fingers through her hair, fluffing it up.

Eren blinks at her. “Uh…do what, exactly?”

“I don’t know. But I’m going to do it.”

“ _Do what?”_ he repeats, sounding mildly panicked. 

Christa unbuckles her seat beat, heart pounding in her ears. “Wish me luck, Eren.” She gets up and out of her seat, taking a few tentative steps up the aisle towards the front of the plane.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” he calls softly after her.

Christa looks over her shoulder, and smiles. “I make no promises.”

 

 **

 

It feels a little like she’d kind of… _snuck up_ on Ymir. It wasn’t so much that she’d been creeping silently, or trying to keep her footsteps soft—the feeling stems more from the fact that Ymir just about jumps out of her skin the moment she sees Christa pull back the curtain.

So she feels creepy, a little like a stalker, and she immediately feels regret well up within her. This was a terrible idea. She’s going to embarrass herself horribly. Ymir is going to call the police as soon as they touch down and she’s going to be led away from the plane in handcuffs.

At least, this is what she thinks up until she notices the scarlet shade Ymir’s ears have become as she looks Christa up and down. She swallows visibly, and Christa feels a little bit of her confidence come back.

“Oh. Hi,” Ymir says, voice raspy. Her eyes are huge and her freckles seem to melt away as her face continues flushing.

Christa smiles, and takes another step forward. She lets the curtain swish closed behind her. “Hi.”

Ymir blinks, mouth opening, then closing. She sucks in a breath before gesturing to Christa’s left. “So…you gotta use the bathroom?”

“No.”

“Oh.” She pauses. “Stretching your legs?”

“Something like that.”

“Uh.”

Christa stands there, expectantly, a part of her screaming to _just do something already,_ she can’t expect Ymir to be a mind-reader, she needs to be the one to spell it out—

“I gotta be honest with you—you scare the shit outta me,” Ymir blurts, immediately taking in a hard breath like she wants to suck back her words right out of the air.

Christa blinks. “I….pardon?”

Ymir grimaces, hand reaching behind her head to yank on her ponytail, frustrated. “Shit, I—I’m not trynna be rude, it’s just I look at you and I feel like I’m dying.”

“That’s…”

“Wait, _fuck,_ no, that’s not what I—what I’m _trying_ to say is that I saw you and you kind of had this—this look on your face, kinda like maybe you might, um. Goddammit.” Ymir closes her eyes, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’m gonna jump outta this plane, I swear.”

“Please don’t.”

“Look…so. Well. This might be kinda…presumptuous? Of me. But—“ her nose wrinkles adorably, and she hesitates for a moment before letting out a hard, irritated breath. “Okay, here we go. Just, don’t hit me, please.”

And Ymir leans down, and kisses her.

There’s a moment—a very clear, very poignant moment—in which Christa feels like she can safely tell every religion that they can take their gospel and shove it, because s _he’s_ the one that knows what heaven is like. It’s the smell in her nose; spicy and sweet, like warm cinnamon. It’s the gentle hands that settle hesitantly on her hips, and then tighten as she makes a quiet sound of encouragement. She has to stand on her tiptoes (because _of course_ she does) but she’s happy to ignore the strain in her calves when _this_ is her reward. Ymir kisses her like it’s what she was born to do—her lips are so, so soft, and so is her body in the places they press together.  

When they pull away from each other Christa is lightheaded and dizzy, and she has to steady herself by holding onto Ymir’s shoulders. She looks up, dazed, and takes note—the rosy flush under those lovely freckles, red lipstick smeared, pupils blown out. Ymir licks her lips nervously. Christa stares, because those lips were just on her _face,_ oh my god.

Ymir swallows. “I don’t wanna sound sappy or gross but the second I saw you I wanted to do that, shit. You…” she struggles for words, looking annoyed with herself. “Y-you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, I think.”

It’s not the first time Christa’s heard that (and it’s probably not the last), but it’s the one and only time in which it’s truly made her feel this way. She blushes. “Really?”

Ymir looks down, a touch shy, and Christa’s heart does a weird thing in her chest. “Really.”

“It’s mutual,” Christa breathes. In a burst of confidence she presses a kiss to the side of Ymir’s neck. She smiles at the ensuing shiver. “If you stop by before we land, I have something to give you.”

Ymir peeks up then, her golden eyes warm. “If it’s not your number I’m gonna feel really stupid.”

Christa laughs, breathless. “Then you have nothing to worry about.”

Ymir laughs too, her fingertips brushing over the spot on her neck where Christa had left the kiss. “I’ll…see you later, then? Um,” her eyes widen. “Fuck, I don’t even know your name?”

Christa smiles. “It’s nice to meet you, Ymir,” she says. “I’m Christa.”  

 

 **

 

“Oh my god,” Eren says, the moment Christa reappears to sit back down. He sinks low in his seat, covering his face with his hands. “Jesus.”

Christa pats self-consciously at her hair, readjusts her shirt collar.

“There’s…your mouth is just _covered_ in lipstick, you look like you made out with a clown.” He chokes on a laugh, burying his face in his sleeve to hide his giggles.

“A sacrifice I was willing to make,” Christa deadpans. She chances a glance over from where she came—Ymir’s peeking at her from behind the curtain, face beet-red. When their eyes meet, she smiles, shyly.

It’s then that Jean shuffles by, a can of Ginger Ale in his hand. His skin is the color of curdled milk. Eren taps on his elbow, and he looks down, wearily.

“Hey, uh. Hope you feel better, man.”

Jean pauses.  He looks carefully at Eren’s earnest face for another moment, scrutinizing, before something like the ghost of a grateful smile spreads his pale lips.

“Thanks.”

**Author's Note:**

> i started this like wayyyyy back in the beginning of the summer, like wrote 99% of it, but then i just had the HARDEST time finishing it and idfk why. but im so happy its done and that i can share my first wlw story! this was mostly written in an attempt to sate my ungodly crush on Ymir
> 
> It didn’t work. 
> 
> ohhotlamb.tumblr.com


End file.
